Plans for a Great Summer

This is going to be the most silly summer ever. I am going to sleep until noon. Then I am going to have cookies for breakfast.

After breakfast, Ereena and I will go to the beach and build sand dogs all morning. If we get bored, we will go down to the park and go roller running. For lunch we will have ice cream sandwiches.

Later in the summer, I may take a trip to Seattle to visit Tyra Banks. Or maybe I will go to camp and learn deer-back riding. I definitely want to watch Over The Hedge sixteen times.

Last week, my parents were talking about having me clean the blankets out of the garage. They also want me to walk the lawn every week. And I think they said something about pushing in the garden. I hope they won't be too dirty when they find out I already have plans!

Go ahead. Make your own madlib!! You know you want to.

Why didn't anyone warn me?!?!

Before I had The Boy, I thought I knew what to expect. The Girl was a perfect child. She didn’t cry, she talked and walked early, she obeyed when we told her to do something. She was awesome. Even as she entered Toddlerhood, she was sweet and quiet and loving. The Boy was born when The Girl was almost two. She was an awesome big sister. She wasn’t jealous at all. I was scared that The Boy was going to be her complete opposite. A horrible baby. A screamer, a clinger, colicky, something, anything bad.

But he wasn’t. He was such a good baby. Quiet, sweet, started sleeping through the night at two months, and that he did by himself. He was so precious.












Through infancy he was always quiet. Just sat back and watched everyone and everything. He was a bit lazy. He didn’t want to roll over, or crawl, or scoot, or anything. He just wanted to lay on the floor and be waited on.












But still. He was wonderful. Then he grew up.

My sister had three boys, years before The Boy was born. I was around them a lot. You think I’d have remembered what they were like. Or maybe they weren’t as bad as The Boy. I don’t know. But what I have now? A complete and total tornado of terror. He is in constant motion; he never slows down. Always touching something, tasting something, pushing something, hitting something. ALWAYS getting into something. Case in point:











These are the shorts he started out in this morning. While I was on the computer talking to TB, he was getting down the Bordeaux’s Butt Paste diaper rash medicine and self-medicating. Don’t think I’m a bad mom. This stuff is on top of the dresser in a plastic box. I often have a hard time finding it, it is so covered with diapers and wipes boxes. But my creative little boy got a small plastic chair to climb on. Yeah, he’s smart.

And talk about rough and tumble. His favorite thing to do is wrestle. I blame The Hubster for that. He will wrestle with anyone who happens to be on the floor (The Boy, not The Hubster). You can’t even crouch down to talk to him without him trying to tackle you. And his favorite person to wrestle with? The Girl. Whether she wants to or not. He loves to pick on her. He likes to hit, with his hands, or whatever toy is in his hands. And he’ll hit whichever of her body parts is closest to him. He kicks and pushes too. He steals toys from her and throws them over the baby gate so that she can’t get them. Another thing. I honestly cannot remember The Girl ever getting holes in any of her clothes (unless, of course, you count the socks that she cut off her feet). But I have the feeling that this











is going to become a common sight in our house. He got these beauties by pretending to be a bunny rabbit on concrete. Full hoppage on the knees. Sounds like fun, eh?

The Boy is such a.... well, he’s such a boy. Now, don’t let me scare you off here. He is a wonderful kid. Very loving, when he wants to be. If he sees a baby, or another toddler, or a preschooler, any small-ish kid, he will go up and give them a hug, and try to kiss them. The other parents at The Girl’s school call him “The Hugger.” He gives great kisses, too. Every time I sit on the floor to change his diaper, he has to give me a hug and a cuddle before we’re done. He’s fun to play with, he loves to hear stories, and we’re really starting to have some great conversations. But sometimes, I get this face:











This is the “Damn It Woman! Don’t take another picture of me after you woke me up early from my nap!!!!” face.

And man, this boy has got a sense of humor. He is Exactly. Like. His. Father. He has a very serious side. He has gotten very good at “The Look,” as my family has dubbed it. He got that from me. But he is a huge-ass goofball just like The Hubster. He has us in stitches every night when we sing before bed. Looks like this often get the laughs too:
















And the sweet side. Here is a sweet face:











Seriously. How cute is he? Okay, I should go before I post any more pictures of The Boy. I promise one of these days I’ll do a post of The Girl. Ahh, The Girl. My (younger) twin. My exact copy. She is my soul mate. A sort of Mini Me, if you will.

Goodnight.

The Boy's New Shirt

Here is The Boy's new shirt that I got at Target today. I have been looking for one of these in his size. It's totally appropriate, don't you think?

He is sitting on my lap right now, and here is our conversation:

Me: I think you look silly wearing daddy's hat.

Him: No! No see-yee, Mama. Me mad. Noht (not) fay (not fair).

Me: You're mad? Why are you mad? What's not fair?

Him: Me pay (play) ow hide (outside). No fay.

Me: Oh. You're mad that you don't get to play outside, and it's not fair?

Him: Yeah.

And...that was it. Keep in mind, people, that this is my stimulation throughout the day. Conversations with a two-and-a-half year old. Here's one between The Boy and The Hubster the other night while going to bed:

Boy: Me you voom-voom, dah-ee (daddy).

Hub: You wanna' go in my jeep?

Boy: Yeah. Me die (drive) you voom-voom.

Hub: You wanna' drive my jeep?

Boy: Yeah.

Hub: Do you know how to drive?

Boy: Yeah.

Hub: Oh. Do you have your driver's license?

Boy: Yeah.

Hub: Do you have your own car?

Boy: Yeah.

Hub: Are you a compulsive liar?

Boy: Yeah.

So. Freakin'. Funny. I now ask The Boy this question all the time. And he always answers "Yeah." He also apparently can now climb up into The Hubster's Jeep, get the keys from the center console, find the ignition key, and stick the key into the ingnition. Nice.

Okay, so there are my boy adventures for the day.

The Releasement of Social Anxiety (or, The Little Green Cup)

(I gotta' give a shout-out to Jade, the real "undiscovered supermodel," from America's Next Top Model for the title of my post. Even though I hate Jade and wish she would die a horrible, painful death.)

Have you ever had an inanimate object that signified a turning point in your life? I don't think that I have ever had something like that before. But, as of yesterday, I do. This little green coffee cup is that object for me.

For my oldest sister, Campbell's, birthday yesterday, she, Feather, and I went to Sequim (pronounced Squim) to visit a scrapbooking store and have lunch together. We went to a place called the Highway 101 Diner. The food was good, but apparently the coffee cups were even better. Campbell saw the pink version of this cup and wanted one. She figured it was the perfect size to help her cut back on her daily coffee consumption. She tried to slyly convince me to steal one for her (even though none of us ordered coffee). Of course, I would never do something like that (even though I stole a small flag from a Shari's Restaurant for The Hubster the night we met). Since we couldn't steal one, we wondered if we could buy one. Didn't you know you can buy anything, for a price? I declared that I would ask the waitress if we could buy one. She came around again, and it was time to suck it up and ask. I'll be honest with you, I almost chickened out. I do not like to stick my neck out with strangers, even for something as small as a coffee cup. But, I asked:

Me: Can we buy a coffee cup?

Her: You mean one of our coffee cups?

Me: Yeah.

Her: Ummm, I don't know. That's something I'd have to ask the owner.

(At this point, she walks away. We think this is the end of it, figuring the owner isn't around. Then we see her walk to a table in the far corner, filled with four men of varying ages. She has a short conversation and returns to our table.)

Her: He says $4.00.

Me: So, do you want one [Campbell]?

Campbell: (thinking) Uh, yeah, I think so.

Her: Do you want pink or blue?

Campbell: Oh, there's blue?

Her: Yeah, here. (holds up green coffee cup)

Campbell: I'll take a blue one.

I'm sure this waitress in this little diner in this podunk town thought us out-of-towners were a few crayons short of a full box. But I'll tell you, that experience was liberating.

In the recent past, somewhere around here, I started thinking a lot about asking for what I want. About not being afraid of the answer, or embarrassed by the reaction. As someone once said to me "The worst they can say is 'No'." And I'm thinking "Umm, they could say 'Are you kidding me? What kind of idiot are you? Never, in a million years, will the answer to that question ever be Yes.'" So, maybe I've got an over-active imagination. But these are the thoughts that run through my mind when I want to ask for something, and they cause me to freeze up and not voice my requests. With strangers, I am a very non-confrontational person (notice I didn't say with my family, 'cause yeah, I'm pretty confrontational there). I don't like to point out mistakes, and I'm much more likely to accept what I'm given, even if it's not right. And if I want something that isn't freely advertised, I won't ask for it. 'Cause in my little world, if they don't advertise it, it ain't for sale.

That's why this cup was such a big deal for me. It is my first step in getting Betsy-like confidence. What is Betsy-like confidence? I'll tell you. I have this friend named Betsy. She is one of my scrapbooking buddies, and we have kids similar in ages. This woman will ask for ANYTHING! You want soft-serve ice cream for the kiddies at the coffee shop where they don't sell soft-serve ice cream? She's your girl. You need plates, forks, and knives for lunch at the scrapbooking store? She'll ask. You want extra-extra lettuce for your wraps at P.F. Chang's? She'll get it for you. I so admire this about Betsy. These things don't seem like a big deal, I know. But I guarantee you that I would never ask for these things. I would be far too embarrassed and too worried about making whoever-is-helping-me work too hard. So asking for this coffee cup was a HUGE deal. Especially since it wasn't something meal related. You know, something you might expect a person to ask for: ketchup, more napkins, a straw. This was something odd. An "interesting" request that the waitresses gossip about in the break room. But, I did it! This mug represents courage for me. It means that I wasn't too chicken to ask for what I wanted.

I just thought of something. Campbell owns this mug. I will never see it again, unless I hoof it over to her house (ALL THE WAY across the street). Maybe I should ask for joint custody. You know, weekends at my house. Or I could just steal it (since I'm so good at that), and hide it when she comes over to my house. Like "By the way. If your coffee cup goes missing, Feather stole it." Or maybe I will print out that picture and hang it on my wall. Make a giant pop-art poster of The Little Green Cup to remind myself everyday to be brave. To step outside my comfort zone. To not be afraid to ask for what I want. Because, after all, they can only say no.

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P.S. I took this picture with my new camera. I set the cup up on a box covered with a white tablecloth. Looking at it now, I realize the angle is kind of weird, and the cup just looks...off. But oh well. With the help of my photography classes, I'll get better.